


Closing Time

by JeannieMac



Category: Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeannieMac/pseuds/JeannieMac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The song is, of course, "Closing Time" by Semisonic.</p><p>Date Stamp: In my mind, Goren and Eames got together some time around Christmas of season 4. This takes place a few weeks later. </p><p>I haven’t written that story yet, although I have lots of vague ideas about what would go in it. All of my fics to date are actually set at different points on that (imaginary) timeline, and refer to each other in ways that probably I’m the only one to notice (because the backstory is still mostly in my head….sigh!).</p></blockquote>





	Closing Time

Mahoney's was crowded, the air thick and heavy with the heat and noise generated by several dozen patrons - mostly off-duty cops - drinking hard and partying harder. Standing at one end of the bar, Goren was surprised at how much he was enjoying himself. He almost never did this - come out for drinks at the end of a shift - but MCS had closed a big case that day, a series of bank robberies that had been under investigation for almost two years. Collins and Polanski, as the lead detectives, had made the collar, but almost every other team in the squad had put in hours on the case at some point. Polanski had announced to the bullpen at large that there would be celebrating at Mahoney's that evening, and Eames had raised her eyebrows at Goren across their desks.  
  
“You up for that?”  
  
“Uh - sure.”  
  
“Really?” She'd looked surprised, and he couldn't blame her. His usual response to such invitations was to find some excuse not to show up. Going out and getting varying degrees of drunk with one's squad-mates was part of the culture of being a cop, he knew, but he had never really participated - too much need for self-control, always, and too many unpleasant family associations with seedy bars in general. And even after four years at MCS, he hadn't yet shaken the feeling that most of his colleagues didn't quite know what to make of him, and that any social invitations that did come his way were extended out of courtesy. He tended to think he was doing everyone a favour by politely refusing nine times out of ten.  
  
But, he figured, this was one of the times that he should at least make an appearance; and besides, he liked Collins and Polanski, and was glad for them.  
  
“Yeah,” he'd said to Eames. “One drink, at least. I'll buy you a margarita.”  
  
But he'd ended up staying longer than that; he was now most of the way through his second pint of Guinness. He'd forgotten that it was kind of fascinating to observe his colleagues away from the job, to catalogue the small ways that they were different in this new context. And he had to admit that it was nice to see everyone relaxed and having fun.  
 __  
Sure, Goren. “Everyone.” Right. He wondered if he was really fooling anyone. Hoped like hell that he was.  
  
Eames’ margarita was long gone; she was sharing a pitcher of something with Lynn Collins now, and he could tell from across the room that she was just slightly tipsy. He was doing his level best to be discreet, but he couldn't stop his gaze from returning to her every few minutes. She had shrugged off her sweater earlier, revealing a dark green tank top, completely respectable of course, but still tight-fitting enough that, when she twisted around in her seat to talk to someone, the flex of muscles in her back and shoulders made him temporarily dizzy. The next time he let himself scan the crowd to find her, she had pulled her hair back into a high, sloppy ponytail, which he loved because of the way it revealed her ears and the line of her neck. She was flushed and a little disheveled; he thought she was beautiful. Seeing her like this - laughing, having fun - eased him on some profound level. He could feel himself relaxing by increments every time he looked at her, his mind going quiet. Focused, like losing himself in a book, only it was her he was reading, her he was memorizing down to the smallest detail.  
  
Just then, the noise level abated for a few seconds, so that he could hear the music. They had been playing a lot of classic rock, but this was a band he didn't recognize, one with a 90s alternative sound and a plaintive, angry-edged male voice singing lead.

 _Closing time – open all the doors and let you out into the world_  
Closing time – turn all of the lights on over every boy and every girl  
Closing time – one last call for alcohol, so finish your whiskey or beer  
Closing time – you don't have to go home but you can't stay here  
  
Then the drums kicked in, and the vocalist let loose.

 _I know who I want to take me home_  
I know who I want to take me home  
I know who I want to take me home  
Take me home...  
  
The yearning in the song was palpable, Goren thought. The writer and the singer had nailed it – that feeling, all too familiar, of being alone in a crowd at the end of a long day...night...week...hell, year...and just wanting someone to look at him and really _see_ him - someone who would say _I know. I'm tired too. Let's go home_. So simple; and yet, probably responsible for more one-night-stands than most people would care to admit. He knew – he’d been down that road a few times himself.

 _But things have changed_ , he thought with wonder. It had been a few weeks – actually a little more than a month, he realized, thinking about it – but the sensation of dazed disbelief had yet to wear off. He shifted position, moving slightly to bring Eames back into his line of sight, and saw with a warm little thrill that she was gazing back at him. When he caught her eye, her lip quirked up in a small, private smile.

 _Hi._  
  
He smiled back, unable to help himself, and then covered it by lifting his glass and gulping down the rest of his Guinness. It seemed impossible that no one would notice – it felt to him as though this thing between him and Alex, so new and raw and uncertain, blazed so brightly that it might as well be written in letters of fire on the menu board above the bar. But thankfully, no one was paying any attention to either of them, so he tilted his head towards her questioningly.

 _How are you doing?_ He wondered if she’d get what he really wanted to ask, which was: _Are you ready to go, and if so, can I come too?_ He watched her eyes cut to his glass and then to her own, almost empty. She tilted it up, drained it, and looked back at him in a way that left no room for doubt.  
 __  
Yes. Definitely yes.  
  
He swallowed hard. Then he turned away, settled up with the bartender, and pushed his way through the crowd to the door, stopping to shake hands with Polanski and Collins and wave a vague, general goodnight in the direction of the other tables occupied by MCS cops. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eames stand up and make her way towards the bathrooms. When she came back, he knew, she would say goodbye properly, and it would take her a while to extricate herself. By the time she got to the door, anyone who might have noticed him leaving wouldn't have any reason to connect the dots.  
  
He walked down the block and waited in front of the newsstand on the corner, rocking on the balls of his feet and staring unseeing at the posters plastered all over it. The air smelled like snow – the forecast had said to expect three inches overnight, he remembered inconsequentially. It was bitterly cold, but he barely noticed: anticipation was running through him like a low-voltage electric current, fizzing and crackling beneath the skin.  
  
“I could feel you watching me in there,” Alex said behind him. He turned quickly. She was standing with her hands stuffed deep in her coat pockets, and he couldn’t quite read her expression.  
  
  
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Was it bothering you?”  
  
“No.” She looked up at him, her face framed by loose strands of hair that had escaped from her ponytail. He fought the desire to reach out and smooth them gently back behind her ears. _Not now. Not here._ He imagined cradling her head, tracing her cheekbones with his thumbs… _no_ , he told himself again, closing his hands into fists in his pockets They were too close to the bar - someone might come out for a cigarette or something and see them.  
  
“Actually I kind of liked it.” She turned and started walking, and he fell into step beside her.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. It's...been a while.”  
  
“Since someone checked you out in a bar? Not true,” he teased. “That happened just yesterday when we interviewed what's-his-name at that place on Churchill Street.”  
  
She punched him in the arm, but gently – as though maybe she’d rather be touching him differently.  
  
“That's not what I meant.” A few more steps and they had turned the corner towards the subway station. She was staring straight ahead, not looking at him. “I meant - it's been a while since I've had someone - looking out for me in a crowd.”  
 __  
I've been doing that for years, he thought. He had to touch her, so he put a hand on the back of her neck, inside the collar of her coat, his thumb rubbing lightly at the base of her scalp. The skin and hair there were still warm and slightly damp with sweat.  
  
“Me too.” He cleared his throat. “Like the song said.”  
  
She looked at him blankly, and for a second he thought he’d been wrong, that she hadn’t actually been listening to the words, inside. Then her face cleared.  
  
“I know who I want…”  
  
“…To take me home,” he finished. “Yeah. Will you?”  
  
She tipped her chin up, leaning her head back into his hand, and smiled at him, a wide, luminous grin that made him catch his breath. He’d thought, watching her earlier, that she glowed…but subtly. Like a lantern, shuttered, with light seeping out at the corners – and now the shutters were gone and she was spilling out golden warmth everywhere, so bright that it almost hurt to look at her.  
 __  
She’s happy, he realized with a jolt. _I – this – us – it makes her as happy as it does me._  
  
His brain stuttered and froze for a second. He stared at her, dizzy with joy and terror.  
  
“What?” she said, sounding uncertain. He realized that he had stopped walking. He breathed in jerkily, the cold air sharp in his lungs, his hand still warm at the nape of her neck. Searched for words.  
  
“I just – I look at you, and I can hardly believe…”  
  
“I know.” She stepped in close and wrapped her arms around him, under his long coat. “Me neither.” Her voice was muffled. “But here we are.”  
  
He held her tightly for a long moment, until the wave of emotion was at least sort of under control. Then,  
  
“We should go.”  
  
She leaned back in the circle of his arms to look up at him, eyebrows raised in mock irritation.  
  
“Hey, don’t look at _me_. You’re the one who freaked out in the street.”  
  
Her voice and eyes were soft, though. _Are you okay?_  
  
He smiled. _Oh yes. I’m a lot better than okay._  
  
“Yeah. Sorry. But we need to go, before I do something even more inappropriate.”  
  
She laughed, and just like that, again, he was lost. Overwhelmed, he leaned down and kissed her, fast and open-mouthed and hungry. She made a small, wanting sound and pressed close, rising on tiptoe to hold his head to hers. Warm breath, lips and teeth and tongue, the pulse in her throat hammering under his fingers…he groaned and pulled away.  
  
“God. I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” he muttered. “But – like I said – inappropriate…”  
  
“Yeah,” she said shakily. She kissed him one more time, hard and full of promise.  
  
“Definitely closing time. Take me home, Goren.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> The song is, of course, "Closing Time" by Semisonic.
> 
> Date Stamp: In my mind, Goren and Eames got together some time around Christmas of season 4. This takes place a few weeks later. 
> 
> I haven’t written that story yet, although I have lots of vague ideas about what would go in it. All of my fics to date are actually set at different points on that (imaginary) timeline, and refer to each other in ways that probably I’m the only one to notice (because the backstory is still mostly in my head….sigh!).


End file.
